


Cast loose your guns

by i_claudia



Series: Check/Mate [9]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Fear of Discovery, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:13:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a whisper of a rumour, and Merlin isn't quite quick enough to anachronistically remember the refrain 'loose lips sink ships'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cast loose your guns

**Author's Note:**

> A short, unplanned detour in the Check/Mate verse! I was writing the last installment (well, that's not quite true—there are probably three short bits left in this verse, sort of) and found a brief scribble about this scenario in my notes; couldn't resist giving it a little bit of shape.
> 
> Cross-posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/95990.html).

“But that's impossible,” said Merlin, shocked by the accusation into raw, dangerous honesty. “Lord Arthur was with me all night.”

The world slowed, stopped around him, the very air itself weighing on him as every eye turned to him, every mouth ceased its movement at his words; Merlin had never, until that moment, understood what an oppressive weight lay waiting in another man's focused gaze. There was a quiet cough, the tinkle of a glass—and Merlin's whirling panic, pressing hot and frantic into his throat and around his ears as the true extent of his own self-betrayal revealed itself, nearly weakening his knees so far that they buckled under him. 

“We are chess partners,” he desperately corrected himself, his thickened tongue stumbling over the words, the explanation sounding faint and thin even—perhaps especially—to his own ears. “Our game ran on far too long—it was nearly morning by the time we finished—he did not like to disturb the world so early. We talked in his library until the sun rose and I took my leave.”

The honest truth was not so far different from this story, and yet it lay in another world entirely. Merlin had indeed been at the house Arthur kept in London all night, and they had begun the evening with a chess game, but they had never finished it: they had shortly abandoned the board in Arthur's study for Arthur's bed, forgoing the intellectual for more primal pursuits, indulging themselves in fingers and tongues and flesh. Regardless of the specific circumstances, Merlin felt confident in declaring that Arthur had never met with a French envoy and a spy in the dead of night, for Arthur had barely left the sanctuary provided by his bed curtains, so intent had he been on fully exploring the brief carnal pleasures he and Merlin wrestled from time and each other when they were able.

But this was a truth which could never be said aloud, let alone in such esteemed company as Merlin found himself now—it could not even be suspected—the merest breath of a rumour would mean the ruin of them both—and yet Merlin had plunged them both into terrible danger without thinking. He had not meant to; it had been an immediate reaction to defend Arthur, and yet the peril was no lessened for having good intentions as its cause. 

“Merlin and Lord Pendragon are fierce about their chess,” Dr Williams said, shooting Merlin a sharp, furious look from behind his glass. “They are both great proficients; I have never seen the like. It is a marvel to watch them play.”

“Could never manage the knack of it, myself,” Lord Keith said, smiling and clapping a jovial hand to Merlin's shoulder. “Blasted dull game. I say, though, I am glad to hear our young people have picked it up, if it means the Commodore can vouch for Lord Arthur's whereabouts.” 

Lord Joseph, from where he stood near Dr Williams, said, “The charge was never being seriously considered, anyway,” and though he did not raise his voice Merlin heard him quite clearly, and went all over pale again when he considered that his rash statement might very well never have been necessary in the slightest sense. 

“Can you imagine?” Lord Keith continued. “A Pendragon? Spying? They'll be pointing fingers at the king himself, next.” 

The gathered company tittered, as he had intended for them to do, and the conversation turned to other things, the matter quite forgotten for nearly all concerned.

Merlin did not so easily forget the mishap; nor did Dr Williams, who stayed strangely distant from Merlin until they reached the house at which they both were lodged, and he felt free to speak his mind. 

“Will—” Merlin began, when it became clear to him that the good doctor, after following him into the room which served as his study, had no intention of leaving him alone.

“No,” Williams interrupted, barely able to control his anger—there was fear layered beneath it, a terror that lurked close to his bones and which he felt as a prickling crackle in his lungs when he drew breath—but anger seemed to him a far more preferable refuge. “Merlin, have you taken leave of every sense you might once have had?”

“Will,” Merlin tried again, but Will would have none of it.

“Have you perhaps decided that life has become too dull, barren of amusement, and so you must throw yourself into the very jaws of the lions?” Will could feel the colour mounting in his cheeks, and though such a revealing display frustrated him, he pushed on. “Or perhaps you have decided that you no longer wish to play _chess_ with Lord Pendragon—in which case, dear friend, I might advise you to look to your own well-being first, and perhaps to _think_ before you jump into madness.”

“I hadn't—”

“You never do,” Will said, his frustration turned fully now to fury. “You never _think_ , Merlin. You speak without considering the consequence. Have you read the Articles? I mean,” he interrupted himself at Merlin's dark look, “I mean truly read them, Merlin, not just recited them in show for your crew. You _cannot_ believe that all listening ears will be as dismissive—as deafened—as Lord Keith's; you will only end up the very agent of your own destruction.”

He drew breath to go on, for his opinions on this subject, once awakened, were fierce—with no small amount of venom, though he had not the stomach to direct any of it at Merlin himself—he only wished for Merlin to exhibit the caution he ought in this, for he knew better than most how careless Merlin could be when playing with such a fire. He meant to continue—had already shaped in his mind the exact curvature of his argument—but Merlin was in no mind to receive a lashing with the roughest side of his friend's tongue. Even as Will began to speak again, Merlin was pushing past him to throw open the door, nearly tumbling down the stairs of the lodging house before barreling blindly into the night.

He gave no conscious thought to his destination—he only needed to leave, to become faceless in the darkness as he ducked around the lights which spilled from windows and lamps into the streets—and yet his feet knew what his mind did not—he soon found himself at Arthur's door. Too soon, perhaps: his mind was still awhirl, a wreck, for he was still fast in the thrall of deepest horror at what he had done, at what might have—what might still—come from it. He had been shaken to his core, and desperation gripped him; he must see Arthur. He must see with his eyes that no harm had befallen Arthur in the short hours since his ill-considered words; must see that Arthur remained safe, that their great secret remained undiscovered. 

The servants knew him and made no comment at his appearance, though he knew he must look a fright, half his buttons undone and his face far too pale. He was shown into the drawing room, where he paced, blind to the comforts of the room, until Arthur appeared in the door, his hair tousled and his dressing gown securely fastened. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, bemused and somewhat anxious at Merlin's sudden, dishevelled appearance. “What in heaven—”

Merlin did not leave him to finish, but flew to him and stopped his mouth with a wild kiss, heedless of the risk of prying eyes. “Come away with me,” he said, the tips of his fingers digging tight into the flesh of Arthur's arms. “Run with me to where they'll never find us.”

“Merlin—”

Merlin kissed Arthur again: a scorching kiss which sought nothing less than perfect oblivion. “Arthur,” he said. “I need you.” 

Arthur slid his arms more firmly around Merlin, and though he felt the tremble in Merlin's body, he chose not to mention it. “Then you shall have me,” he said, drawing Merlin through the door—for as much as he could sense the immediacy of Merlin's need, he knew both of them would later regret an ill-planned display in his public drawing room. 

It was easy work for Arthur to guide Merlin up the staircase, more difficult to catch and stay Merlin's fingers from the fastenings of his dressing gown in the deserted hall outside his room; by the time Arthur had shut the door behind them, he had given up all hope of control—though not without taking pleasure in that release. He gladly left his clothes in disarray on the floor, and just as gladly allowed Merlin to push him to the bed and caress his skin with shaking hands.

“Merlin,” he said quietly when Merlin bowed his head and spread his fingers between Arthur's ribs, held in an agonizing pause. “Dear heart, you have me. You always have me.”

Merlin drew a shallow breath which juddered painfully in his throat, but he leant to press a kiss to the hollow of Arthur's throat and did not pause again. He took Arthur with a passion that bordered on violence as Arthur arched and writhed beneath him, fingernails leaving red marks across the smooth expanse of Merlin's back, and neither of them bothered overmuch to muffle their noise. Merlin did not dare open his eyes, for fear of what he might betray—he hid his face in Arthur's skin and fucked Arthur harder, urgently, until neither of them could bear it further, tumbling headlong into desperate bliss from which they did not recover before fitful sleep stole up to claim them.

When Merlin woke, the night was half-spent: he found that dawn still lay hours away and panic remained stuck in his throat, in his flesh as a knife—he could almost feel that he was losing blood from it, if he imagined it—could feel that something delicate and precious was being drawn from him while he lay helpless to stop it. The knife was cleverly designed; there was no haft by which he might pull it out. He shivered once, and again, and turned back to Arthur, who was shifting next to him, blinking the sleep from his eyes. 

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured, but Merlin felt the knife twist, robbing him of his words with his breath, and so he pulled Arthur close, flush against his own body, that he might feel Arthur's breath on his cheek, feel their bellies pressed together, warm and alive. After a moment's thought, he reached down to cup a gentle hand around Arthur's cock, and Arthur sighed at the touch, sliding his own hand soft along the outside of Merlin's arm, encouraging the movement.

Arthur had become somewhat of an expert in reading Merlin as a sailor might a map, triangulating his position from the tides he found in Merlin's brow, and though he remained bewildered, it would have been obvious to a man far less expert than Arthur that Merlin was troubled—that Merlin was upset—that something had befallen him to truly shake him. Equally obvious was the stubborn reality that Merlin would never say a word of it, not to Arthur: Arthur was left only with touch to comfort and soothe Merlin as best he could; to let Merlin slide down, breath catching, on his cock, as if such intimate contact might fix whatever was wrong, might fix anything—everything—despite how impossible they both knew that dream to be. 

Merlin still hid his face against the emotion which threatened him; he imagined he could hear the echo of a ticking clock, and he hated it, hated that with every small motion of the hands such a clock stole the minutes away from them, leaving them trapped—trapped as a matter of course—at the mercy of a wind which led to one certain and inevitable end—

He drove that thought forcefully from his head as Arthur rolled his hips, thrusting deeper—Merlin could not quite keep his balance at the change in motion, catching himself with his hands on Arthur's pillow. Arthur took his cock in a practised hand and Merlin bit his lips, straining toward release, rocking into Arthur's every move until the tension in his limbs was drawn too tight, and his movements fell all apart to shakes. Arthur allowed him no time to recover from the fall; Merlin found himself on his back, still shuddering, with Arthur wild over him, and he twisted his fingers painfully tight in Arthur's hair as Arthur drove into him harder, both unwilling and entirely unable to let go.


End file.
